


Soulmate Wanted

by Old_Friends_Bookends



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Old_Friends_Bookends/pseuds/Old_Friends_Bookends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had the word 'Gregory' scrawled on his wrist in messy handwriting. It had been there since the day he was born, bright, blossoming. He wondered if he'd ever meet this Gregory character, and how someone could ever love someone like him. But mummy had told him. Everyone has a soulmate. Everyone has someone who loves them no matter what. </p><p> </p><p>This is the story of how the Holmes boys find love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude.

**Author's Note:**

> So in this fic, everyone is born with the name of their soulmate somewhere on their body. The names are coloured differently and the brighter the colour the stronger the bond. 
> 
> Greg's name (on Mycroft's wrist) is red, John's (On the crook of Sherlock's arm) is blue.  
> Sherlock's (On John's hipbone) is purple and Mycroft's (On Greg's shoulder) is a deep grey, almost black.

"Greg? What sort of a name is that?"

Sixteen year old, Mycroft sighed. Covering his wrist, he glared at his ten year old brother. 

"He's my soulmate Sherlock, just like John is yours." Mycroft murmured, "Now shut up."

Sherlock traced the letters on his arm once more.

"Greg is a common name anyway."

"Oh, and John isn't!" Mycroft shouted, getting defensive over someone he had never even met.

"John is special! And one day I'll prove it to you!"

The boys became enthralled in a full on fist fight. Mycroft tried to pin his brother to the bed in an attempt to stop the younger boys fists from hitting him.

Mummy chose that moment to enter.

"Stop that this instance! You are brothers - act like it!"

She slapped them both around the head, though it was gentle, and both boys apologised. 

"Mummy?" Sherlock crawled into his mother's lap, "Tell us about soulmates?"

"Not again!" Mycroft complained. 

Mummy just hummed in response, arms winding around Sherlock's waist.

"A soulmate is someone who has locks that fit our keys, and keys to fit our locks. When we feel safe enough to open the locks, our truest selves step out and we can be completely and honestly who we are." she says softly. 

Sherlock sucks his thumb, curled up in his mothers arms. She stood up and carried Sherlock to his own room to put him to bed. 

Mycroft brushed his fingertips over the smooth, curly scrawl of 'Gregory' on his wrist. He wished and wished that his dream would come true. He needed to find his soulmate.


	2. Wanderlust.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Sherlock gets arrested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanderlust; (n.) The irresistible, incurable desire to travel or wander.

Sherlock Holmes. 18. Intoxicated. 

 

Police Officer Dimmock wrote the words down in his usual messy scrawl. Not listening to the grumbled words of the young boy in the cell across from him. Sherlock was rubbing his wrists, frowning at the pain. It was then when he checked for his soul mark. Still as blue as ever. John. Sherlock thought. Where are you?

His mother always told him that soulmates love each other no matter what. Sherlock snorted at that. If his soulmate loved him then why wasn't he around now? John was the only thing saving Sherlock from the boredom of this life. 

 

He flicked his gaze back to the police officer. Mated. Bonded. To his soulmate no less! If this man could find his soulmate then there really was hope for himself. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you, John." Sherlock whispered, almost silent. 

He could do this. He could find his soulmate. Just a little while longer. That's all he had to wait.


	3. Guanxi.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory and Mycroft meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guanxi; (n.) a network of social connections based on mutual trust, and the balancing of debts by returning favours so that the relationships benefits are shared by all.

Mycroft sighed as he was lead to the cells of New Scotland Yard; his younger brother was always getting into trouble. That meant that Mycroft was always getting his brother out of trouble. Honestly! Sherlock should have realised that, while he was only a minor government official and he had far to go in his career, Mycroft was far too busy to deal with ridiculous things like this. Sherlock got arrested. How was that Mycroft's fault?

But here he was, signing for the release of his brother. Mycroft flashed his fake ID, these people never checked, and signed the name of his father. Sherlock had learned how to pickpocket from the best after all. Mycroft knew the police would probably not release Sherlock into his care; he looked too young and not at all like Sherlock. Add that to the fact that, at the moment Sherlock was arrested, Mycroft was in bed, sans clothes or ID, so he just grabbed the closest one to him. It was good really, he couldn't have people asking questions about the ID he currently possessed with the different agency names printed on it, because though he loathed to admit it, Mycroft had yet learned how to driver. Perhaps he should learn now? The man in charge of Sherlock's release was young, but he looked tired, the bone weary, exhausted with life kind. Mycroft smiled at the young man, an apologetic tight lipped smile for the poor PC who had to deal with his brother. Lestrade, his badge read. For some reason, the butterflies in Mycroft's stomach decided to do flips. He squashed the feeling down and headed towards the cells where his brother was currently rambling off deductions of a crime scene he was at before the policeman rudely arrested him on the spot. 

"— Why aren't you listening to me!—" Sherlock stopped in his ridiculous rant when he spotted his brother. "My! Get them to listen!" Sherlock almost pleaded at his brother. Once again he began explaining to Mycroft and PC Lestrade that, no the husband wasn't the murder, and yes if you found the watering can you would have all the evidence you would need, when Mycroft and Lestrade emitted simultaneous responses. 

"—Brilliant!" Cried Lestrade. "Show off," muttered Mycroft. 

Sherlock's brows raised, his head canted to the side. He took in the closeness of the two grown men, their fingers almost touching as they listened to Sherlock's almost manic rambling. He noted the twitch in their eyes, and the sparkle between him. 

 

In that moment Sherlock knew something Mycroft didn't; Mycroft had met his soulmate and he didn't even know it yet. 

 

And damn did that make Sherlock feel smug.


	4. Serein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serein; (n.) The fine, light rain that falls from the clear sky at sunset or in the early hours of the night; evening serenity.

The days after Mycroft released Sherlock into his care were hell. Sherlock was determined, Mycroft thought, to ruin everything. Mycroft was having a nice cup of tea, Sherlock had put fingers in it. Mycroft was reading by lamp light, Sherlock had coated the pages in a colourless toxin. Mycroft wanted to have a shower, Sherlock had replaced all of Mycroft's shower gels with test tubes of God knows what. 

It was driving him crazy. No man was an island, but Mycroft wished he could ship his darling young brother away to some foreign land and never look back. He had hoped that, some how, he'd manage to get a little bit of peace and quiet. On top of Sherlock's often over the top experiments and tantrums and drama, Mycroft had been feeling weird. Fuzzy. The kamikaze butterflies in his stomach had been continuously practicing their flips if the odd sensation in his stomach was anything to go by. He longed for them to cease too. 

His arm was itchy too. More importantly, the name felt like it was burning. Getting brighter. More red. He'd tried to hide it, with make up or clothes or jewellery; but it was always there. It felt like the name 'Gregory' was burning itself into his mind as well as onto his flesh. 

He had taken out dozens of books on soul mates at the library. Well. He sent his assistant, Anthea she was going by now, to collect a variety of different books about soul mates. Books on the death of a soul mate, on the meeting of a soul mate, on how to deal with a soul mate who you don't have an instant connection with. Mycroft was becoming an expert. On top of that, he'd spent hours googling all the various questions he had. He couldn't understand it, nothing made sense, all of his research had been for naught. 

There was no data on why his connection to this other man, his Gregory, would burn so bright after lying dormant for so long. 

 

{oOo}

 

Greg sat on the back of the ambulance, holding his arm in the air as the paramedic stitched up the weeping slash on his ribs. He was too busy chasing the suspect to realise it at first, the knife wound to his rib was inconsequential, it must have happened in the immediate scuffle when Greg first caught the suspect attacking a young woman in the street. He wasn't even on duty for Christ sake! He went out to pick up his Chinese takeaway on his way home from work. 

The pain in his side wasn't as bad as the stinging on his shoulder. He knew that's where the name was. 'Mycroft'. He'd never heard that name before and yet, it felt like he knew this man all his life. It had been days since the pain in his shoulder had started, but Greg had only just noticed it now. Greg had wondered what it meant, he worried that maybe his Mycroft had fallen victim to something bad. 

He made a mental note to check up on any Mycroft's on the computer data bases at work. Surely there can't be too many Mycroft's in the world, can there?


	5. Eunoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eunoia; (n.) Beautiful thinking; a well mind.

Mycroft was still studying soulmates after years. He needed to know. He couldn't leave the subject alone until he had discovered everything there was to know on the subject. Once, when Mycroft was six years old, he had spent six whole months studying the effects of drugs on the human body. He had seen a man on the street usuing some substance and decided to learn every single thing he could. 

Even after years of research, the pain was still there in his wrist, and there was no answer in sight. After all the research and studying and reading, Mycroft had no idea why the name was as bright as it is. He rolled his eyes as he pulled down the sleeve over the name. It irritated him now, people would always comment. When Mycroft was younger his mother had told him that the brighter the name meant the stronger the connection. And yet here Mycroft was. Still alone, he thought bitterly to himself. If his soulmate loved him so much then why wasn't he here? Loving him, protecting him, keeping him safe from the harshness of the world.

Mycroft knew he was close. His Gregory was more than likely in the same country. He thought back to when the name on his skin started to hurt. It was when he went to pick his brother up all those years ago. Thinking quickly, Mycroft grabbed his laptop and typed in a few lines of code. Within a few minutes he had hacked into his brothers emails. Honestly. Sherlock really should think of a better password. Mycroft combed through the mundane emails Sherlock had collected, most of them were from people requiring his help. One reoccurring email caught Mycroft's attention. G.Lestrade@gmail.com. Could the G possibly stand for Gregory? Mycroft doubted it. But still, it couldn't hurt to check.


	6. Eternitarian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternitarian; (n.) A person who believes in the eternity of the soul.

When Greg's phone started to vibrate he was fast asleep with his face pressed against the piles of paperwork on his desk. Damn it. It was Sherlock. Again. Ever since Sherlock had 'helped' on the case two years ago, they had been working none stop. Sherlock had helped Greg solve case after big case. That got the attention of several of his higher ups, which lead to a promotion and an office and a healthy bump in his salary. Which also meant that Greg was spending long hours chasing the young genius, or parked behind his desk filing paperwork. 

Greg checked his phone and yep, it was Sherlock. Texting to say that he was bored. The younger Holmes was always bored. He always wanted some case to distract him from whatever was going on in that big brain of his. Greg had no cases. He was busy trying not to fall asleep as it was, there was absolutely nothing of interest for the young addict -no no, 'causal user' Sherlock had always said-. Greg checked his watch and realised it was far too late for him to be at the office. Do you remember when you'd dance the nights away rather than sit behind this desk? Greg hummed to himself as he thought. 

He stood up and stretched, feeling the familiar twinge in his shoulder. It was nice now, it reminded Greg that his soulmate was out there, living his life. "My love." He smiled at his mumble as he made his way out of the building and toward his car. Greg would never admit it. In fact he would deny it if anybody ever asked. But there he was, driving through the late night streets of London, singing Taylor Swift of all things at the top of his lungs. 

After making his way though the traffic, Greg finally arrived at his modest home. He didn't mind living alone; yes it was lonely sometimes, but his home was usually a place for him to drop his head and sleep. As he fiddled with his keys and pushed open the door, he debated what he should have to eat, pizza or Indian food. It took everything Greg had in him not to scream when he heard the clearing of the throat. He glanced to the chair in his lounge, and noticed the tall and graceful form of Sherlock Holmes' older brother. 

'Mike' Greg's brain supplied as he willed his heart to stop pounding, he remembered Sherlock mumbling it once or twice in his sleep when he crashed at Greg's place. He may be a Detective Sargent but that didn't stop him from jumping like those people in horror movies. The ginger man rose to his feet, a soft chuckle leaving him as he made his way over to Greg. 

"I believe it is time we met, Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft smirked as his gaze rolled down Greg's form. Greg shivered. There was some sort of electric charge in the air that made his entire self tingle. Suddenly Greg forgot all about food and work and the buzzing in his shoulder.


	7. Verklempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verklempt; (adj.) To be overcome with emotion.

Greg smiled a tight lipped smile at the strange man in his lounge. How did he get in, for one? Greg knew he locked all his doors and windows, he was a police man for crying out loud. He knew the ways people can break into a house. He was always safe. But there was a six foot something, ginger man firmly rooted to the floor in his living room. Greg thought back to Sherlock's comments about this Mike man being the devil incarnate, the man with keys for any lock. Greg snorted, not my lock, he thought to himself as he rubbed his shoulder. 

Mycroft's eyes narrowed on the movement. Drat. No easy way of accidentally seeing Greg's soul mates name. Yes Lestrades first name was Gregory but that didn't mean that this Gregory was his Gregory. He sighed softly, this was all getting ridiculous, perhaps he could just ask. Mycroft's brain counted the point quicker than even he thought possible. What if he is the man you've been searching for. What if he doesn't live up to the expectation you've built up in your head? What if you don't live up to expectations?

Usually, whenever Mycroft met someone new he would shake their hands or bow (given certain circumstances whenever his job required it). But he had done enough research to realise that, when one touches ones soulmate, the bond makes itself clear. It's like, the person sees in colour where once they only saw grey. Mycroft took no notice in the dramatics of the notion. And yet. He didn't want to touch Greg and have their bond sealed forever without giving the man a chance. He needed to get to know Greg, and for Greg to know him. Sherlock was difficult to live with but Mycroft even more so. He knew his faults; how he micromanaged everything in his power, how everything needed to be in order. More importantly, would Greg even find Mycroft attractive? He knew he didn't have the looks of his brother. Mycroft had accepted that years ago. But now, stood in front of what Mycroft thought was quite possibly Adonis incarnate, he grew self conscious. Maybe if they dated a little, spoke a little, Greg would see the beauty that lied within? Mycroft scoffed, startling the other man in the room. What ridiculous sentiment. 

He glanced back to Gregory, the officer looking just as confused as Mycroft now felt. Eventually Greg saw it fit to defuse the buzzing tension between them and speak. "So... Mike? What are you doing here?" Mike? Who is this Mike person? Is there someone behind? Mycroft quickly checked behind him then shook himself mentally. No, you buffoon. I am Mike. Mike is me. He thinks I am Mike. This is helpful. 

"I believe you are in a partnership with my brother. You two work very closely. Am I to expect a happy announcement soon?" Mycroft let a small chuckle pass his lips. Greg would never know that it was a nervous one. 

"Sherlock? And... Sherlock and me? Nah!" Greg's mirth overtook the look of confusion on his face, replacing it with a beaming smile that made Mycroft weak at the knees. "God no. I wouldn't be able to handle him— no offence—, and anyways he's not my soulmate." Greg shrugged his shoulders and sat down. He was beginning to realise that this was the 'hurt my brother and I shall hurt you' speech. He'd heard it before. Many times. And frankly, he didn't have the energy to stay standing and listen. He motioned for Mycroft to join him on his sofa. The ginger man sat, but instead of sitting close to Greg he chose his previous spot of the arm chair. Greg frowned for a moment, he knew he'd just come off a long shift but he didn't smell that bad, thank you very much! 

"Ah." Was all Mycroft could say as he sat down, fingers steepled under his chin. "Have you found your soulmate yet?"

Greg began to explain that, no he hadn't found his soulmate yet. He got rather animated when he told this Mike fellow about his plan, he had searched arrest records and databases and even Facebook. He'd found nobody at all with such a name as 'Mycroft.' Mycroft nodded and smiled at the relevant places to show Greg that he was listening. It was odd. Greg had no idea who this man was, and yet he was sharing his inner most thoughts as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes sense, it wrote it rather quickly. But my muse is on fire right now.


	8. Aeipathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aeipathy; (n.) An enduring and consuming passion.

Sherlock was focused on whipping the corpse in front of him. He needed to see what bruises developed. It was a matter of the upmost importance. A man's freedom depended on it. He heard Molly, the pathologist who was always trying to befriend him, talking about something. Not that he was paying attention. The case came first, it always came first. No matter what. 

Once he had finished his whipping he went to the lab to study flecks of paint under the microscope. Sherlock liked this part of science. The microscope allowed him to see the truth, no matter what something looks like on the surface, Sherlock knew a microscope would reveal the truth. He wished he could use a microscope in life, to analyse people. To see their true intentions. Sherlock was good at deductions, he knew that, but there was always something that eluded him. He didn't know what but he always felt like one thing was missing. 

Oh dear, more people. That was Sherlock's first thought when he looked up and saw Mike walk into the room with another fellow. Instantly deductions flew through Sherlock's mind. Doctor. Army doctor in fact. Afghanistan or Iraq? Is that a limp? Psychosomatic. Took a hit, couldn't shake it. Sherlock found himself incredibly intregued with this new man. Mike was talking, but Sherlock wasn't really listening. He then recognised his own voice, asking for something. As Sherlock took the phone from this new man, their fingers were so close to touching. They didn't though. And Sherlock felt oddly saddened by that. 

"The names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B, Baker Street." Sherlock announced as he flounced out of the room after reeling off a long list of deductions that more than likely left the two men's heads spinning. 

Sherlock was surprised the very next morning when he showed up at Baker Street and the short doctor arrived. This man, that Sherlock had probably insulted, was still here. Wanting to view a flat. To live with Sherlock of all people. 

They settled into a relaxed mode over the first few days of living together. The doctor, John was his name, Sherlock had learned, would come on cases with him. He would call Sherlock brilliant and amazing and genius. And Sherlock lapped it up. He loved it. But he had yet to ask John what his soul mates name was. John had been on one or two dates since they had been living together, so Sherlock believed that the John he was living with wasn't his John. 

{oOo}

Lestrade had asked for his help. Suicides. Lots of them! It was like Christmas! He and John were chasing the suspect down a dark alleyway. Sherlock was focused on the shadowed figure running in front of him and the blood rushing through his body. He felt like his body was alight, everything felt sharper, clearer. The thrill of the chase was great, solving the puzzle was what he lived for. But this gave him a new rush entirely, chasing down the bad guy, his coat flapping behind him. Sherlock loved it. 

He felt it before his brain computed it. It all happened so fast. Sherlock had run out into the road to chase the suspect when he heard a shout of his name and someone grab his hand. It felt like he'd been shot. Such an immense feeling, Sherlock was sure he'd spent his entire life in stasis. Waiting. He looked back at John who was staring at their hands in shock. He hadn't meant to touch Sherlock. He didn't mean it. But the giant lump of sulking detective had ran into the road without looking or noticing the big red bus coming his way. Now John had touched Sherlock and it was game over. 

He had spent the entire time he had known Sherlock avoiding the man's touch. He knew how soul mates bonded and in all honesty, John was terrified. When he was growing up, his parents and friends had always told him that two men being together was wrong. It was unnatural. Even if they were soul mates. When John saw his soul mark he had scowled. When he was a child the name had been faint, but it had said 'William' and then, when he was shot in the war, his mark changed. It was as if he was shot twice. This time his soulmark was bright, not faint like before. Where once stood William now stood the name Sherlock, as bright as day. He didn't want it to be a boy, he'd learned his lesson when his father saw his soulmark before. Who knew. Maybe Sherlock was a girls name. 

Here he was, holding the detectives hand, eyes wide with panic. How could something be wrong if it felt so right. John felt complete. For the first time in his life he didn't feel inadequate or incomplete. He felt like he had found the home he'd been searching for his entire life. They both lingered on the streets. It could have been seconds or it could have been hours. Neither of them moved. They just held hands and stared at each other. 

Eventually, John tugged on Sherlock's hand and pulled the curly haired man-child into his arms, hugging him tightly. He couldn't find the words so he honed the hug would be enough for now. John knew that emotions eluded Sherlock, they made his fantastic brain stutter to a magnificent halt, so he didn't want to take things too fast. 

The day ended with John and Sherlock, limbs tangled, on the sofa of 221B. John had his fingers curled through Sherlock's Raven locks. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They were both lost in their own musings. 

Sherlock couldn't help but think back a month, to the day he met John. He had no idea that the small, jumper clad, tough doctor would mean so much to him. John was his safe haven, his harbour in the storm. 

And Sherlock wished Mycroft could have the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place over a month. I hope the jump cuts make sense. Also! John! Finally! I do not agree with the opinions expressed in this chapter, but I needed some way of making John not touch Sherlock and date. I tried to make this fit in with how I want the story to go. 
> 
> Also! It's Arthur Conan Doyle's birthday today! 
> 
> Soul marks can change in this fic — for instance, if a transgender person changes their name then their soul mates mark would change too. 
> 
> As always I hope you enjoy!


	9. Scintilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scintilla; (n.) A tiny, brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; a barely visible trace.

Greg and John met up every few weeks at their local pub to discuss Sherlock's general craziness. They spent the night with pints in hand, each sharing stories about their consulting detective. It didn't mean to become a tradition, but whenever they could they would break away and rant. 

Greg arrived to the pub earlier than John, he'd just left another meeting with Mike. Yet again they'd gone to a fancy restaurant to have delightful food, talk about Sherlock and avoid the tingling feeling. That ridiculous, incessant tingling that never ever left Greg whenever he was close to the elder Holmes. Yet again Mike wouldn't touch him, in fact he would avoid Greg's touch all together, even if both men reached for the salt at the same time, Mike would flinch away. So here Greg was, on his third pint of the night, while John wandered into the pub. John got them both fresh drinks before slipping down in the booth next to his friend. Greg looked like a man who had issues, a man who was trying to find the answer to said issues at the bottom of his glass. 

John jutted his head in a greeting, Greg just looked up, offering him a half smile. "What's he done?" John questioned as he raised his glass to his lips, taking a large gulp. "He drives me insane." Greg mumbled a reply, shaking his head as he focused his eyes on the bubbles of his beer, "Who does he think he is?" The doctor frowned slightly, swallowing before asking. "Who? Sherlock? You know what he's like!" Greg laughed softly because John reminded him that they were here to discuss Sherlock, the same Sherlock who had fallen into the Thames that day. The Sherlock who had interrupted his meeting with Mike because he called the older Holmes and demanded he go to Baker Street immediately. Greg began his fantastic, animated story, telling John how Sherlock looked much like a drowned rat after being pulled out of the Thames. John threw his head back laughing, he unfortunately had to work at the clinic that day - someone had to pay the bills - so he missed Sherlock falling. Unluckily for him, he had returned to Baker Street to find a naked Sherlock Holmes, sprawled out over his chair, very much sulking. 

A few hours and several beers later, John and Greg were a giggling, drunken mess. "I don't get it, mate." Was all Greg kept saying, through his giggle fits. John was using all his concentration to focus on the several Greg's in his vision. "Who?" "Mike, John! Mike!" The detective slumped in his seat. "I know he's not my soulmate but I like him. A lot more than I should." John searched his mind for all the Mike's he knew. His mind settled on Mike Stamford. The man who introduced John to his insane room mate turned lover. He knew he hadn't spoke to Mike in a while -he'd been meaning too really, he just got distracted by the prosthetic leg murder-, but he knew Mike was married to his soulmate. John was confused. Was Mike cheating on his soulmate with Greg? He knew he'd never do that to Sherlock, but he knew of some couples who just were not compatible, even though they had each other's names carved into their skin. It was clear to everyone at Scotland Yard that Anderson was cheating on his soulmate to be with Sally. Though Lord knows why, John thought. 

"Maybe... Maybe Mike is happy with his soulmate?" John tried. He tried really hard to help his friend come up with reasons as to why Mike wouldn't want him. "He hasn't found his soulmate yet. Sherlock says he's lonely." Greg looked conflicted as he drained yet another drink. "Sherlock? How's he involved in all this?" John was confused. Of all the conversations he had ever had with Greg, they had never discussed Greg's soulmate. Obviously John had told him that Sherlock's name was imprinted on his hip. He had told Greg all about the name changing on him and how his family had been old fashioned in their thinking but every time they came close to discussing Greg's situation the detective stopped talking. "I've searched for him. I've searched for my soulmate and he is nowhere to be found. So I figured," Greg waved his hand as he spoke. "I figured I'd move on. Find someone new. And there's this buzz!" He pouted, looking more like a love sick puppy than the grown man he actually was. "There's this... Tension I suppose. Whenever I'm near him it's like the air is charged." 

John was nodding empathetically. "Then tell him!" John's voice was loud, almost drawing attention from the other patrons of the bar. Perhaps he should have had more than a packet of crisps at lunch. "Grab the bull by the balls—, no wait. Grab the bull by the horns, and kiss him! On the lips!" Gregory Lestrade, a man who had worked for New Scotland Yard in the cesspool that is London, had survived knowing Sherlock Holmes, looked absolutely terrified by John's outburst. He couldn't do that. Because if he kissed Mike he would push the other man away. He would force his Mike to put up those icy walls once more. And damn wouldn't that make the weekly meetings they shared awkward. No. Mike didn't like touching, so Greg would certainly not do something as rash as that. Maybe he could ask Mike about his soul mates name? Though, the last time he had tried that Mike, has excused himself rather quickly from their lunch to go stop some war. "I can't do that! Mike'll have me hung, drawn and quartered! And then who'd give Sherlock cases, huh? You know how doesn't like Dimmock." John, who's eyes had suspiciously closed for a few moments, scowled a little. "Jeez, Greg! He's just a fella! It's not like he's the British government or the Queen or something." 

"But he is. Sherlock told me that he has his fingers in everything. He sees and hears everything, according to Sherlock. He says, 'He's my archenemy!' It's not fair. Why do I have to get roped into baby sitting one Holmes while lusting after the other!" Greg threw his hands up in the air, as if some divine power would come along and answer all his questions. He didn't necessarily believe in God or Buddha or a prophet, but if they had answers to the questions he so desperately seeked, they he may just be converted. If this were a cartoon, a lightbulb would have appeared above John's head and flashed on. The man finally understood. All the pieces finally slipped into place. Well, after four minutes because it took his drunken mind to comprehend that one, Mycroft would have a soulmate out there in the world and that two, Greg had a massive raging teenage girl level crush on Mycroft bloody Holmes of all people. "Wait wait wait." John flapped his hands. "Why didn't you just say that?" "Say what?" "You have a crush—" "Well it's not really a crush..." Greg tried to protest. "On Mycroft I-don't-need-a-relationship Holmes?" Greg frowned. "You want to kiss Mycroft. As in Sherlock's brother Mycroft. As in the Mycroft who makes security cameras dance and follows you down the street Mycroft?" Why was John saying that name, that's all Greg registered. That was his name, his secret, and here was John shouting out the name as if everyone knew who it was. It sounded weird, Mycroft, coming out of John's mouth. The doctor wasn't taking care of every letter, each syllable as Greg did. He wasn't tenderly saying the name of the man Greg had adored for a long as he remembered. 

 

Greg remembered standing up. He remembered leaving the booth and slipping into the first taxi he saw. He didn't remember was giving said taxi driver the address to Mike's —Mycroft's, his mind supplied— townhouse.


	10. Misanthrope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! Greg and Mycroft have a little chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misanthrope; (n.) A person who dislikes humankind and avoids human society.

Most people would jump out of their skin upon hearing the aggressive banging on the door of their home when it was in the early hours of the morning and they weren't expecting someone. However, Mycroft was not like most people. On the outside he looked perplexed, even if his heart rate increased slightly. He knew it wasn't Sherlock, who was currently in hibernation after spending almost a week awake on a difficult case that he had solved that day. And he doubted it would be his personal assistant, Anthea worked almost as hard as him, but he didn't think she'd be up at this ungodly hour preparing for their day of meetings. There was no world war erupting, he would have known, and London didn't seem to be burning, so he had no idea why the mysterious banging at his lodgings door continued. After checking his phone, to see if he had any missed calls from something important, Mycroft rose to his feet to answer the door. 

The knocking had ceased for a moment, and Mycroft frowned as his fingers lingered on the door handle. He began to wonder if he had been dreaming it. Perhaps he had fallen asleep at his desk. But no, as soon as he notion swam into his mind the banging began again, this time with more force. With a swift motion, the ginger Holmes unlocked the door and allowed his visitor to stumble in. Any angry words that were going to leave him were halted in his throat by the sight of the very drunk and very angry Detective Lestrade. The man in question quickly righted himself from his tumble through the door and waggled his tanned index finger at the home owner. Mycroft, as usual, stepped away from the drunken mans touch and closed his door. "Gregory? To what do I owe this pleasure?" He said with as much distain as he could muster. Mycroft liked Greg, some would say love though Mycroft never would, but he did not appreciate being drunkenly disturbed by him. 

Greg's bleary eyes took a second to focus on Mycroft. For a moment or two there was three tall and irritated Mycroft's stood in front of him, arms folded, and Greg had to decide which one to address. He had forgotten, in all honesty, what he was going to say. He had spent the entire taxi ride over from the pub ranting to Ranjeet his driver about how arrogant and selfish Mycroft was. And yet now, stood in the presence of the man himself -and his two carbon copies- Greg's mind went blank. Part of him wanted to break down and cry, to ask Mycroft why, what was wrong with him. Though Greg was sure that that was just the alcohol talking, or at least he hoped. The other part was angry, furious in fact. How could Mycroft just make that decision all on his own. Greg would have liked to at least have a say in how they were going to deal with their soul bond. "Mycroft Bloody Holmes." He threw his hands up in the air and sighed, as if those three words encompassed everything Greg had said to Ranjeet on the ride over. 

Mycroft was stunned for a moment. His feet felt glued to the floor, Mycroft was sure some little imps had burst into his home and glued his stockinged feet to his hardwood floor. Mycroft. Greg had definitely said Mycroft. Greg didn't look angry anymore, just hurt. And all Mycroft wanted to do was run. He had spent years trying to avoid this moment. Avoid listening to Greg say how they should be together, only to separate months later because Greg couldn't handle being with a man like him. Someone once said that it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. And Mycroft knew they were wrong. He could stand loving his soulmate from afar because that meant never risking being hurt. Never losing the one person who held his heart completely. "I have no clue what you are talking about, Gregory. I insist on making you tea and calling my driver for you." Mycroft nodded firmly, as if that was the end of their discussion on the matter. 

The ginger man slipped past Greg, narrowly avoiding his grabbing hand. He made his way though to the kitchen, setting up all the equipment to make them both a steaming mug of tea as he went through the situation in his head. He was a strategist, if he knew all the possible exits and angles the conversation might go, he could steer it in any direction he wished. Mycroft hadn't heard it, but Greg was suddenly advancing on him, mumbling about Holmes's and real names and soul marks. "I don't get it." He was saying. "I don't get why you didn't tell me. We could have fixed this together. Mycroft. Jesus. We could have bonded!" Greg wobbled over to the countertop where Mycroft was, luckily enough for Mycroft he had to move to fetch the tea bags for their very important cups of tea. Mycroft popped the tea bags in and poured the water. He considered telling Greg that his soulmark was a different name. It didn't belong to Greg at all. He could pick a random name, Tom or William or hell, Sandra! He didn't want to deal with Greg at all. 

"Mycroft, did I do something? Was I not handsome enough? Rich enough? Is that it? Is being on the police force not good enough for you?" Greg was scowling, the anger coming back now. "Is it 'cause I don't talk like you or walk like you or dress like you? Damn it, Mycroft we weren't all born with a silver spoon in our mouth. Some of us have to work for what we've got." Mycroft shook his head, almost bursting out laughing, Greg was so wrong. It was completely the opposite. He wasn't good enough for the likes of Greg. He, who in this moment was busy fixing tea instead of confessing, was the one who would mess everything up. "I love you Mycroft. Hell, I loved you when you were Mike." Greg tried once again to move closer to Mycroft once again. "I don't get it" he mumbled quietly, and Mycroft could feel the hurt in his voice. 

"You see, but you don't observe." The 'British government' as she Sherlock labelled him said softly, placing their tea down. He stepped further away from Greg and sighed. "What? See what?" Greg questioned, sure he was drunk, but he hadn't been drunk for the past few years of their friendship. Was it even a friendship? Everything felt like a lie now. Mycroft was controlling him, only letting him get so close. Mycroft stayed quiet, raising his mug to his lips. Somehow that seemed to anger Greg even more. How dare Mycroft hold his tongue. They needed to work this out and come to some sort of conclusion even if it meant they dissolved their soul bond. Greg had about the dissolution of a soul bond before but he had never witnessed it. He heard that it hurt like hell, it was shattering your soul and rebuilding it without that key part. It was taking you apart and rebuilding you again and again. Most of the time it didn't work though Greg knew Mycroft would find some way to make it work. 

"I love you. Everything about you. I love that you listen to me when I have to complain about your stupid brother. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your cologne on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. I look at you and my heart pounds, like it's trying to break free, when for years, I didn't think it beat at all. You fill the cracks and crevices, take away the emptiness. I love you for your flaws and your weaknesses. I love you, and I will love you until I die, and if there’s a life after that, I’ll love you then. So don't ever think that you're not worth much, or that you're not beautiful or brilliant or fantastic. You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful. You doing this, lying, it was wrong. I deserved to know. I had a right to make the decision with you." 

Somehow, during Greg's rant, Mycroft had backed away, trying to find some escape. He felt his back hit the wall and began to panic. When Greg had finished, he moved closer, hands unbuttoning his grey shirt as he encroached on Mycroft's personal space. He dropped his shirt to the floor and turned, showing his soulmark to the shorter man. A sharp intake of breath surprised Mycroft. The gasp came from him. He name was staring back at him and it was his writing. Indisputable evidence that they belonged together. 

"I.... Gregory." He started, took a deep breath and then began again. "You are a foolish man. I cannot, I will not, inflict myself upon you. I am moody, arrogant and closed off. I do not do well with people or emotions. I cannot inflict a life time of punishment on you. How can I love you if I cannot love myself?" He paused, avoiding looking at Greg. Rather he began searching for a means of escaping his trap. "My work is my life and if I accept you into my bubble, you could get hurt. I need to keep you at arms length to keep you safe. There are too many dangerous people who will do anything harm me, even if it means harming the people who mean the most. I simply cannot take the risk, there are far too many factors—, I cannot. Gregory. I can't."

The next thing to happen was unexpected to say the least. Greg could see the agony in Mycroft's face as he explained himself. Finally. And all his anger, all his hurt, all his pain was gone. He just wanted to wrap his arms around this man and protect him from everything, including his own mind. Before he had time to think, Greg was kissing Mycroft. It was soft and kind and not at all like the pain shooting through his soulmark. It felt like all his strings were looping through Mycroft's, tying knots and sealing the two of them together. Mycroft let out another shocked gasp at feeling himself tether together with his detective, his Gregory. He slipped his arms up around Greg's neck, gripping onto him for dear life. He had spent years avoiding touching Greg for fear that he would reject him. Yet here he was, feeling nothing but love and adoration flood over him as their bond cemented. 

That's when Mycroft knew why their bond burned so bright. He knew that their bond was so strong that nothing would ever stop them being together. Mycroft and Greg were always drawn to each other. Standing there, with Mycroft pressed against the wall, his fingers touching the bare expanse of Greg's back, Mycroft felt himself relax finally. For the first time in Mycroft's life, he felt safe. Whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten whole chapters of this done! Wow. This was only supposed to be a one shot. And usually I don't plan stories out, but I have a small idea of where this is going. 
> 
> Hopefully this came out as good as it was in my head. I hope I managed to give it justice!
> 
> Big up Rajeet the taxi driver! It was just a random name I googled.


	11. Metanoia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metanoia; (n.) The journey of changing ones mind, heart, self or way of life.

Silver eyes opened to focus on the ceiling of Mycroft's bedroom. He had no idea how he got into bed, or how his crazy, insane, miracle of a night ended up. The last thing he remembered was trying to explain to Gregory just why they couldn't be together. He had tried. He really had. All Mycroft wanted was for Greg to find happiness, little did he know that the happiness that Greg wanted came wrapped up in a three piece suit with a splash of ginger hair. 

He felt a grip around his waist tighten and heard a soft, sleepy growl. That's when it dawned on him that he was completely and utterly stark naked. There was no scrap of clothing separating him from the gorgeous body lying beside him. Mycroft could feel the heat radiating off the detective and somehow it made his chest bloom with warmth. When he was young, Mycroft's mother would tenderly caress Mycroft's soulmark and tell him stories. She would tell him that he and Greg would grow old together; that they would raise beautiful children; that they would go on mad adventures together. Mycroft had wanted to believe. He did once, he supposed. But then he got old and bitter and angry at the world. He had locked himself away from the world in a bid to protect himself from the world. Or to protect the world from him. 

Greg growled again, a little louder this time as he nuzzled along Mycroft's neck. The sensation was new and unusual and Mycroft found himself letting out a little moan. The touch caused his mind to conjure up images of Gregory's body looming over him. Of Greg's wet and hungry kisses. Of he and Greg moaning in unison as they came; Greg spilling into him, and him following suit on his chest between them. My god. It was all so... Human. So desperate. And Mycroft loved it. 

He turned in the tanned arms that held him and pressed a kiss to the sleepy detectives nose. Greg gave a gentle chuckle in response. "Mmh, don't wanna wake up.." Greg mumbled. "You're awake, my love." Mycroft didn't even flinch or stutter over the word love, his fingers carding their way through Greg's hair. He was surprised to see that it was turning grey. "Noooo" Greg sighed. "This is my dream. You and me. Like this." A small smile curved at Mycroft's lips. "I assure you this is not a dream. Though you should probably sleep a little while longer." Mycroft was interrupted by the affirming grunt that left his parter. "Our bonding was rather strong. And unexpected. It took a lot of energy." He kissed Greg's temple. "And then you just had to go and expend more energy right here in bed."

Greg finally opened his chocolate brown eyes and laughed heartily. "Didn't hear you complaining then. In fact I heard you demanding more." The tips of Mycroft's ears turned pink. "Oh Gregory, Gregory please!" Yes. Mycroft was dead, he was currently being whisked away to heaven and sized for his halo. Greg's imitation of Mycroft grew louder, more embarrassing. "I need you Gregory!" Greg continued to mock and Mycroft wondered if there was a death that was more than being dead. He wondered if you could be more dead than fully dead. "Oh my god, Gregory!" Greg was yelling and Mycroft was beet red. Eventually it stopped and Mycroft was given a temporary reprieve of his death at the pearly gates. Greg was laughing, "Will you never call me Greg?" "Gregory is the name you were given, it is my duty to follow it through to the end." Mycroft smirked ever so smugly. 

The two continued to laugh and joke until they got sleepy again. This time Mycroft was the one to fall asleep first, curled into Greg's side as if he was scared the police officer might run off and escape at any moment. Greg would never leave. How could he? He had everything he had ever wanted tucked up beside him. He thought back to the night they had just spent together and how right it felt. As he sunk into Mycroft it felt like a perfect fit, like he belonged there all along. Greg remembered in school, when his teacher told him that soul mates were a safe harbour for each other, a home. They fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw. Greg felt that then and he felt it now. Mycroft was tucked perfectly into his side, As if the gap was built specifically for him. Perhaps it was, Greg mused as he closed his eyes and started to drift off. Maybe he was built specifically for Mycroft, to love him and protect him and keep him safe. Greg had tried to fight his dreams, he didn't need them anymore when his life was finally better than any dream he could ever imagine. However, exhaustion finally took ahold and stole the sleepy detective off into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be smut. But I can't write smut and make it sound good, so I hope this will do.


	12. Pygalgia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pygalgia; (n.) A pain in the ass, literally.

Their fight started out simple enough. Greg had a knack of leaving things around Mycroft's house. Mycroft would often find a book, open on a countertop, half read and forgotten. Or a tie flung on a door knob to a room, Gregory hadn't even entered. Don't get him wrong, Mycroft adored Greg, with every fibre of his being. He was linked to Greg for the rest of his life. But yes, if he could, he would take the mislaid ties and books and shirts and case files and mugs of tea, and shove them so far up Greg's bum that he wouldn't be able to walk straight for weeks. 

He needed order. Cleanliness. His home was his sanctuary and it needed to be under his control, like everything else in his life. Greg should have understood that. But Greg didn't understand that. Greg was the type of person who would lay pennies on the ground for other people to find. He leaves books half finished so he can find them later. He definitely does not fit into a neat little box that can be stored away. Mycroft just didn't get it. 

Their fight about the mess then lead into how Mycroft wanted to change Greg. Which lead into how Greg couldn't truly trust Mycroft, what with his job and all. Which then lead into Greg yelling, asking why they even bonded in the first place. It shouldn't have happened. He regretted it as soon as the words left his lips, but the bomb had been dropped, the bullet had hit its mark. Maximum devastation had occurred. If you looked up the word 'broken' in the dictionary, it would be a picture of the look Mycroft gave Greg. He instantly turned and walked away, slamming his office door for dramatic effect. 

Greg could handle the shouting. He could face the yelling and the bitchiness and the all round crazy drama he faced on a daily basis working as a referee between Sherlock and Sally. What he couldn't handle was the silence. The pain radiated through their tethered bond and Greg let out a whine. He did the only thing he could think of. He asked Sherlock Holmes for help. 

[Text: Sherlock Holmes: Help. I fucked up. It hurts. What do I do? - Greg.] 

{Text: Mycroft's goldfish: Who is Greg? If it's for a case then contact me through my website- SH}

Well texting was getting him nowhere. He slumped into the living room, collapsing onto the much too comfy sofa, and dialed the idiot detectives number.

"Gavin? What are you calling me for? Is there a case?"  
"No Sherlock. No case. I do need your help though. It's about Mycroft—"  
"—Boring!—"  
"— He's mad at me. I can feel his pain. Sherlock please you know I wouldn't call if I had any other choice."  
There was a sigh down the line.  
"Fine. I'll help you. What exactly did you do, Gandalf?"  
Greg ignored the ridiculousness of the name. Gandalf? Really? He knew he was getting grey hairs but come on!  
"I was angry. He was angry. I said some things about why we even bonded... He got hurt. Jesus Sherlock it's like I'm having a heart attack! Help me fix it."  
Greg rubbed his chest whilst Sherlock deliberated.  
"Fix the mistake. Whatever caused the argument in the first place."  
Greg nodded. That bit was the easy but. Perhaps he was a smidge too messy for Mycroft's house. When he had his old flat it was fine to leave mess around because it was his place and his rules. But this place was like a palace and there was never anything out of its place.  
"Okay. Then what?"  
Sherlock sighed and Greg could practically see him pinching his nose in distain of having to help this situation.  
"Simple." The voice over the line said. "Show him that you love him, though why you do is beyond me. Treat him. Make him feel your love through your bond."  
Greg hadn't thought about that. Their bond was new and fresh but stronger than anything he'd heard of before. If he focused really hard, perhaps he could try and fix this.  
"Greg? Greg it's John? You hadn't spoken in a while and Sherlock just wandered away. You know what he's like. Anyway, we've got to go see a man about a dog. Literally. Sherlock thinks the dog knows something about a robbery. See ya later."

The soft click of his phone as John hung up roused him from his mental musings. He had the perfect idea. But first he had to clean everything up. It took him a little while, but he finally found every thing he'd left around the house. It wasn't very hard, all he had to do was follow the familiar trail he wandered every day. Once everything was washed or put away in its proper place, Greg took out a piece of paper, scrawled on it, and gently pushed it under the door of Mycroft's office. He hadn't heard anything from the younger man in over an hour but the hurt in their bond was still there so he knew Mycroft was too. He hoped what he had planned would be enough, and that Mycroft could feel exactly how sorry he was for messing everything up.


	13. Kalon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kalon; (n.) Beauty that is more than skin deep.

When Mycroft saw the letter poking out from under his door, he ignored it. At least for the first ten minutes. Then he heard the sounds of pots and pans being moved around, so he became a little intrigued by the mystery of it all, though he refused to read the letter. After another five minutes, Mycroft heard the soft sound of Eva Cassidy playing over the speakers. He could hear Greg's voice sing along with the lyrics of their song. 

"For you, there'll be no crying  
For you, the sun will be shining  
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you  
It's alright  
I know it's right"

Mycroft got up, opened the note and smiled shyly, his fingers tracing the cursive on the page. It matched the name on his wrist, something that didn't go unnoticed to Mycroft. Greg was truly his soulmate. This perfect, if a little crazy, man was his. Such a handsome, young, brave man. Who drove Mycroft up the wall. How did he get this lucky. The note simply read: I'm sorry. Dinner? GL x. But some how that was all he needed, though he was still hurt by Greg's words. He tried not to let the warmth spread through their bond, hoping that Greg couldn't feel it. He didn't want to let Greg off the hook that easily. 

"And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score  
And I love you, I love you, I love you  
Like never before" 

Greg was singing, happy and light. Mycroft could see the relaxed composure of his lover as he slipped out of his office and into the kitchen. He lingered a little by the door way before joining in on the singing. Greg span around, cheeks turning an adorable shade of red. "This is stage one of Greg's big apology. Dinner. With you. Your favourite.." Mycroft nodded his head and hurried forward, taking Greg's hands in his own. "Thank you. This is wonderful."

Once the food was cooked and plated up, the two men sat next to each other on the island in the kitchen. There was no need to go the dining room, it was too cold for something as divine as this moment. This was him and Gregory and their first actual date. This was romance and love and getting to know each other all over again. The two men ate in companiable silence, sharing small smiles and gentle touches. Mycroft didn't understand how he could fall more in love with the man in front of him but some how he did. The shine in Greg's eyes, the bright smile he offered every so often. It managed to warm his heart something rotten. 

Greg swept the empty bowls of their food away and placed them in the sink to 'soak'. Mycroft rolled his eyes, chuckling softly. That was one of the things Mycroft didn't like, but he was willing to get over it, as the kids said nowadays. They did say that, right? Mycroft was busy in the ought, brows creasing in the middle. He didn't notice when Greg took his hand. Nor did he notice when Greg took his hand and tugged him out to their back yard. Though it was light out when Mycroft locked himself away in his office -he was not sulking. The British government doesn't sulk!- the sun had now set. And the little lights Greg had fought to put up on the grounds, were twinkling away. It looked awfully romantic, and Mycroft felt the wave of adoration for this man once again. The chocolate eyed police officer tugged Mycroft down, so that they were lying on a green tartan blanket, gazing up at the stars. 

Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft adored the stars. He liked how something that died out millions of years ago could still have such a profound effect on the people today, that the light could still be seen so brightly. He could name every constellation above him. Something which he once taught his younger brother, though Sherlock had been quick to delete it when Mycroft left for university. Greg had known Mycroft's love, one of his many secrets, because he knew all about Mycroft. Well, those things anyway. The little things, Greg liked to think. Like how Mycroft took his tea or how Gulliver's Travels was his favourite book even though he denied that whenever anyone asked. 

Greg slipped his arm around Mycroft's shoulders and pulled him close, half cuddling him. "Tell me about the stars, my love." And Mycroft did. Though he refrained from telling Greg that, not a single star in the sky matched the beauty radiating from Greg himself.


End file.
